Chapter 11

“Grace knows you’re here and will be out shortly.” Jim offered the guest a stool and popped open a longneck on the brass rail. “Here you go, first one’s on the house. So, bud. Didn’t get a chance to chat with you earlier. You a local, or a vacationer passing through on a mission? You don’t look like our typical Vegas spillover.”

“Vacationer.” Ryker Gamble vibrated with the desperate enthusiasm of a rottweiler let off its leash. “I’m from Kansas, man, and the wife thinks I’m at a Vegas poker tournament with some old frat buddies.” He spread his arms wide as if soaking up the atmosphere. “Three days of freedom, my friend. Three days to remind myself what twenty-one-year-old pussy feels like. Starting here and driving farther north in the morning and flying out of West Wendover Thursday night. Plan on hitting up several houses along the way. Poker?” He snorted, hands flailing. “Fuck poker. I’d rather blow my money on pussy than piss it away at some casino.”

“Hell of a roadmap. Can’t say I blame you since there’s no chance of striking out here like there is at the casino.” Jim watched Ryker drain half his beer in one pull. Three days, multiple houses? This guy must have money to burn. “But want some friendly advice? Don’t commit to skipping town in the morning just yet. We have seven other ladies working now, too, and they can keep you busy for your entire vacation. Trust me, you won’t find a brothel anywhere that has hotter gals than what we offer here at Happy Ending Ranch. Spend some time and meet a few of ‘em after your party with Grace, and if you still want to hit the road in the morning, that’s up to you. But I got a feeling you won’t.” Time to size up his wallet. “Must be pretty well off to afford a trip like this. What do you do for a living?”

“Regional VP, Apex OrthoSolutions – surgical implants, top of the line. I run the central region: Kansas, Nebraska, Missouri, Oklahoma, you name it, man. My team moves millions every quarter. We keep athletes on the field and surgeons cutting, simple as that.”

“So, what does that mean exactly?” You’re a salesman?

“Means if you get a new knee, hip, or shoulder in my territory, odds are it’s my titanium going in you. I land the contracts, my boys wine-and-dine the surgeons, and every time they cut, I get paid.”

Ahh, a schmoozer. The worst type of salesman. “So, you’re basically the knee-and-hip king of the Midwest.”

“King? I prefer Emperor.” Ryker smiled. It was the smile of a man who believed the world and everything in it was arranged for his convenience.

To Jim, Ryker looked more like a retired NFL linebacker, six-foot-two of entitled male muscle. A yuppie scumbag. “Have you ever been to a brothel?” Still, a regional VP? Jesus, three days to splurge. They typically pulled what, three hundred grand a year? Four? Forget going to other houses. You’re staying right here.

“Fifteen, twenty years ago, I did a couple of brothel crawls through Nevada and Montreal. Always fun to hook up with a total smoke-show who doesn’t want to cuddle or bitch about her feelings afterward.” Ryker’s boisterous nature bled into disrepair. “I got married in 2016 and thought I’d be the faithful husband, but fuck me, man, I need something different. Something wild. Need it bad. The wife thinks missionary once a week is adventurous. Haven’t had a decent blowjob since our wedding night.”

Aha. One of them. The seven-year itch hitting at year two. Quite common around here.

“Savannah, my wife, she’s six months pregnant with our first child.” Ryker’s bottle paused halfway to his lips. He set it back down, picked at the label, and his jaw stiffened as if it were locked in place. “Gonna be a boy.”

Jackpot. “A boy? That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” Pregnant wife at home. Sex cut to once a week. No head. All that pent-up frustration and guilt. Now to sink the hooks into this cash cow before he could drive north...

“Our house offers plenty of variety and I’m sure one or two of our girls beyond Grace will fit your needs, too, if not more.” Jim’s voice pitched up, became animated. “Blondes, brunettes, raven-hairs, a gothic hellcat, a foreign import; everything from the busty MILF to the –”

“Hi there! Good evening!” Lindsay emerged from the tattered curtain on the right side with a flourish, peach minidress cut so short it revealed half her ass, red lips glossed to a wet shine. Oopsy. I forgot my panties. When Eric left twenty minutes ago and Colt informed Lindsay that she had two more parties on deck tonight, she scrambled to the back for a quick shower and a wardrobe change. I don’t think this guy is really gonna mind. “I’m Grace. Oh my gosh, welcome to Happy Ending Ranch!”

“Dayummm. Look at you. You’re a fuckin’ sorority pledge.” This mountain of a man hinged his upper body to the right, literally parallel to the floor, his gaze crawling over her legs, her ass, her breasts. “Tight in all the right places.” His veneers gleamed white as a game show host’s. “Name’s Ryker. Sup, babydoll?”

Sup? Really? So cringe. “It’s nice to meet you.” Lindsay didn’t care for the aura this guy was emitting. What do you mean by a sorority pledge? Anywhere else, she’d feel uncomfortable with a stranger gawking at her like this, but here? At the brothel? Paydirt, baby. Lindsay smoothed out her minidress, clacked closer on two-inch heels, and extended a hand. Channel Pamela. Act like Pamela would. “How are you tonight, handsome?”

“Fine, just fine. And you are... fucking phenomenal. Jesus.” Ryker held Lindsay’s hand above her head and spun her like a display model. “Look at that ass. Making me forget why I came here.” He swiveled toward Jim for an instant, honking out a laugh. “Oh wait, that is why I came here!” During her second pirouette, Lindsay fought the urge to roll her eyes. “That outfit is off the chain too. You’re giving me major Britney Spears vibes.”

Britney Spears? Isn’t she like ... old?

Two hours fucking Eric had left Lindsay wrung out, sore and barely able to think, but when Colt told her there were others wanting to party with her tonight, too, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My knees hurt. My pussy hurts. Everything hurts. How was she supposed to cope, to compartmentalize? How could Pamela and all the others move so seamlessly from one client to the next? I took a shower and still smell Eric on me.

She could still feel his dick in her too.

Lindsay had a moment in the shower when she wanted to run back to Citronelle and go straight to church. You just sold your soul for eight hundred bucks. She wanted to return to the innocence and safety of her childhood. She wanted to go to confession. Lindsay envisioned Pastor Richard’s shocked face when he learned what she did for a living now and a giggle erupted through her tears.

Later, when she was dressing for Ryker, Lindsay noticed Eric had left five twenty-dollar bills on the chest of drawers in her bedroom and started crying all over again.

Get over it. Remember, this is what you wanted.

You need this job.

“Only one dick in on the hoe train and you’re already wanting to jump off?” Amethyst’s drive-by moments ago when Lindsay was voicing her concerns to Jenn and she’d passed by. “Just wait until Shahid gets a hold of you. Yeah ... good luck with that, Disneyland.” Amethyst smirked and walked away.

“Your body is insane. Those legs, those tits, that ass. Fuck me.” Ryker waggled his brows. “No, fuck you.”

As in, what you’re gonna do to me? Eww, gross. “Insane? Thank you.” God, this guy. Another thing Pamela had taught Lindsay was that flashing a smile right off the bat may seem disingenuous, even flat-out fake. Hold back on the full-on, all-out smile. Take it slow, let it blossom over time, and make the client think you’re interested in him. With this particular one, though, that may prove difficult. Look at him, assess him for five seconds, and then smile.

Lindsay motioned toward the barstool beside him. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Sure, but that stool is a waste of your ass.” Pressing a hand to her lower back, Ryker guided her over. “Prefer you sit on my dick, but there will be plenty of time for that later, won’t there?” The cords in her neck went taut as she flashed Jim a look, smile frozen in place.

“Keep it respectful, bud,” came his warning.

“Yeah, man, sure thing. How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen. Nineteen in December.”

“Eighteen? Jesus, you’re just a –” Ryker stopped, rubbed his neck. “Sorry. That came out wrong. I’m just too damn worked up. You’ve got that wholesome thing going on. Like, innocent, but ... yeah. You’re gorgeous. Stupid gorgeous. I ... I should shut up now.”

God, he’s such a dumpster fire. “It’s okay, really!” Worked up means horny. Horny means money. “You seem really nice. Just ... intense. I can get that way myself sometimes, too, you know. Maybe we could help ... calm each other down?”

“Calm each other down.” Ryker nodded slowly, pupils drifting out of focus. “That’s ... yes. Stress relief.” His gaze dropped to her breasts again. “Very important for the body. Oxytocin production, dopamine release, blood flow...” He grimaced and shifted atop the stool. “Fuuuuuck.”

OhmiGod. He literally just gripped his dick in front of me. “You poor thing ... you’re so tense.” Since when did Lindsay start having this type of effect on others, particularly men? Had it always been this way and she just didn’t notice? “Let me help you unwind, okay?” I ... I kind of like this. Being a trashy bop.

“Yes. God, yes, please help me. I’m about to lose my goddamn mind.”

The one thing that turned Lindsay off the most about this man, though, was she’d overheard his earlier comment about needing to be away from his pregnant wife. I don’t mind if they’re married, but that’s just plain wrong. If Ryker didn’t want to deal with all the drama and emotional meltdowns, perhaps he shouldn’t have knocked Savannah up in the first place. Simple as that.

But this was a brothel; things were different here, and it wasn’t Lindsay’s job to pass judgment. Her job was to be a pleasure and orgasm specialist who had little to no morals.

Remember, though, Lindsay isn’t the one who’s working here. Scarlett’s advice from last night: Grace shouldn’t care about right and wrong. Bile laced Lindsay’s throat. Grace should just smile and spread. Scarlett even sang it out loud like a nursery rhyme. Smile and spread. Smile and spread. Six hundred bucks an hour to smile and spread.

But Lindsay, she ... she likes getting fucked too. Ryker’s neanderthal stare anchored into her, reeled her back. Adrenaline surged, a carnal ache growing deep in her belly. Bad Daddy wants to corrupt me.

“You want anything to drink, Grace?”

“No, Jim. I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“I’ll take another one, man.” Ryker tipped an empty bottle in Jim’s direction like an Emperor summoning a servant before refocusing on Lindsay. “So, how long have you been in the business?”

“Umm, this is my first day.” You’re young. Play dumb. Play sweet. Innocent. Virgin vibes. Pamela said that’s your angle. “I was here yesterday, but today is my first day actually working.”

“Really?” Ryker’s eyes zoned out, as if his brain couldn’t process that delightful bit of information. Every muscle froze before another grin crept onto his lips and spread from one side to the other. “How do you like it so far? Been busy today with customers?”

“No, not really. But it’s still been fun.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Any bookings yet?”

“Not a one.” Holy cow. That came out smooth. Really smooth. Nor did she feel guilty about the lie.

“So ... I get to be your first-ever client?” Ryker bounced atop the stool as if he had ants in his pants and plugged his eyeballs back into their sockets. “Oh wow. Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah. Shit!” He dipped his chin, took a breath. “What do you like most about working here?”

“Meeting new people, especially older guys.”

“Older guys?” He rubbed his hands and scooted closer, invading her personal space. “Shit, yeah. I like the sound of that.”

“I’ve always loved talking to older men and hanging out with them. I feel like they just ... they understand. They get me, you know?” Lindsay’s bottom lip pressed snug under a neat bite, hellfire red giving way to faint frost. “So, I’m glad you and I can keep each other company tonight.”

“Does it feel kind of like ... naughty?” Ryker scrubbed a hand over his face, his eyes doing that slow elevator scan from her legs to her breasts again. “To be with an older, experienced man? To have him balls deep inside of you?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Balls deep inside of me? Disgusting. “I like to be naughty.” Evie would fall over and die if she were here listening to this now. Just fall over and die.

“Where he throws you around? Takes control? Makes you feel like you belong to him?”

Lindsay’s heel found the stool’s lower rung on pure instinct, prepared to bolt if need be. “Yeah.”

He fondled her thigh, lecherous grin spreading. “I like that. I bet your pussy is wet and tight.”

Jim’s brows winged as he glared at Ryker, but he chose to stay silent. For now.

Lindsay’s mouth twisted to the side, going tiny, and she tried her darnedest to forget Ryker was a creepy loser, but no matter what she did, it failed. That slick, superficial stare made her stomach revolt and libido churn in equal measure. This is bad news. Suddenly, Lindsay realized something. This hurtbag reminds me of Packard in more ways than one.

Over the next twenty-five minutes, Lindsay was told about Ryker’s fraternity days, his corporate office in Topeka, and the child his wife was carrying. Imagine having this as your father. She laughed at Ryker’s outdated jokes, gasped at his college football injuries, and touched his arm whenever he said something he thought was clever. He thinks he’s hot stuff.

He’s just pathetic. Like a bad movie character.

A self-proclaimed “player” in his younger days, Ryker was looking at enjoying six to eight parties with different ladies through Thursday as he did a crawl of the central and northern houses. He’d spend tonight at the Twin Tops Motel and admitted to feeling awkward – “I’m a good guy / It’s not my fault” – doing this without his wife’s consent.

“What Savannah doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Lindsay’s smile blazed like the neon spotlights in the lap dance room as she struggled to project desire instead of the revulsion sludging through her gut. This walking midlife crisis is Packard in twenty-five or thirty years. What did she see in guys like this, anyway? “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, you know? The thought of becoming a first-time father must be stressful and you deserve to relax. I’d love to be the one to help you out.”